Blank Doll

My head throbs now. I had a really strange dream yesterday. I dreamt that I was at some piazza with two women. One of them had hair so blond it was nearly white with really fair skin, I can't remember her eyes but she was the retiring sort. The other had dirty blonde hair with really tanned skin. So there I was praising the woman with the fair skin and the other woman got really angry and then suddenly, she took of her shoes and started hurling them at me.

Weird.

I really am a city person. It becomes very apparent because whenever I think of a country, say France, I think of it as a faceless landscape marked with beacons of life. It is as if I cannot figure the countryside in my head and can only imagine the cities. I cannot see how the cities may sprawl across the landscape until eventually it gives way to the countryside. Surely the countryside and the city are two distinct entities.

Suburbs are detestable. Tear down the banlieues I say, just another euphesism for the bidonvilles.

But I do love the city, even as I want to love the countryside too.

It's equally telling that when I think of countryside, I think of the French campagne and the Tuscan fields. Both are wild, fecund and thriving with the life that one cannot see in the weak images of the Wordsworthian English countryside which besides, has already been claimed by industrialization. Of course I would be silly to say that the Provencal and Florentine spaces that poets eulogize are still there, worse if I think them perfect. One forgets the plague that ravaged the countryside, the cold winds from the north, the swarm of vermin and the numbing boredom of la vie des paysants.

All right, as you can see, I just woke up so my head's still a little woozy. Krugman, by the way, is SUCH a poseur. I cannot believe self-respecting students in my beloved school are actually doing the song and dance for Cambridge. For shame! Don't you value your knowledge? The countless hours you spend in breathless anticipation as the forbidden doors of learning creak open to you? Of course not, you are all content to reduce it to nothing but a matter of tactica and strategy, nothing but pallid letters inked on a piece of paper.

Bah, I have no right to complain any longer. I'm not even going to university after this.

Which means I can grouse about fashion designers not treasuring their craft in seven years time.

C'est tout.